Honey and the Moon
by Josephinee
Summary: Because sometimes going backwards suited him better.


Personal homage to love.

Dedicated to **Sarahbrasil** because she always understands.

**Disclaimer:** no copyright infringement intended. All recognisable names belong to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

_But right now  
Everything you want is wrong,  
And right now  
All your dreams are waking up,  
And right now  
I wish I could follow you  
To the shores  
Of freedom,  
Where no one lives_

Joseph Arthur – Honey and the Moon

* * *

**1 JULY 2024  
**

Love, he thinks, is fucked up.

He knows because he has always known this. It's not like one of those things – not like seasons, or gravity, or the fact that the earth revolves around the sun and not the other way around. It's not a fact in the most strict sense of the word. Science can't help you when it comes to love, because everyone has different perspectives and, even though he personally can't comprehend 99.9 percent of them, there is no global institution dictating which are correct and which aren't. And besides, science always fails when it comes to magic – and isn't that was love is, just a little bit? Inexplicable and therefore frightening; almost to a magical degree?

And yeah, of course.

Fucked up.

He doesn't understand love. He guesses no one really does. Everyone thinks they do, but in the end we're all left in the dark when it comes to finding straight answers or incontrovertible statements. He can't wrap his head around love. Maybe because it's not something he crosses every day – maybe because he's a Malfoy and love isn't exactly sparkling around in the Malfoy household. Maybe because when he was a little boy, his mother once threw a vase at his father, and his father never threw anything at his mother at all, least of all affection. He thinks he might love his family, and they might love him too, but what does he know for sure, really? He knows all kinds of things, like Transfiguration, and Potions, and a spectrum of spells, but when it comes to love he's painfully uncertain. So it scares him, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

But at least he knows he doesn't like it.

It makes him uncomfortable. And stupid. And it's the exact reason why he's currently standing in front of a miserable redhead, whose hand is probably itching to slap him right across his pretty, aristocratic face.

"So, let me rephrase this," she says, evaluating him closely. "You're breaking up with me."

And it's also why he replies with a horrendous, "That sounds fairly harsh."

But of course she's right. She's always right. His girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) is an annoying know-it-all who actually literally knows all. She's the most honest person he's ever met and it doesn't surprise him in the least that he's the one attempting to sugar coat the bullshit he's feeding her, and that she's the one dismantling it in one simple sentence.

It's what they do.

Or should he use past tense from now on?

"If you're going to dump me," she snaps, "the least you can do is be a man about it."

When she says this, he feels funny. Or maybe just weird. Something is telling him that he would be if he actually meant what he was doing now, but it's like he has no control over his emotions (it makes him gag that he even has to use the word), and so he ends up acting like a bloody drama queen without the outward drama.

"I'm sorry," he tries.

It doesn't help. Instead her expression darkens, and she spits, "You know what's twisted?"

His sarcastic nature wants to spit back, but he manages to restrain himself.

"The fact that you've never apologised before. Ever. How ironic is it that, in order for you to utter those words aloud, you have to _break up with me_?"

She makes a good point.

"I _am_ sorry though," he repeats, wondering if she sees through him. If she realises that he doesn't mean any of it – that he's not sorry at all. Because somewhere in his corrupted mind he knows he _wants_ to see her unhappy, and he really, desperately wants to be the reason for it.

He's always been a genuine bastard.

Loving her only made it worse.

"But why?" she asks.

Because he doesn't like who he is when he's with her – sentimental, pathetic and probably even vulnerable... and how can you even like someone else without loving yourself? Because he thinks about her way too much, like she's this big balloon replacing all of the intelligence that used to occupy his head. Because she makes him question himself and everything he knows, and what the fuck, that's just wrong on so many levels.

This is what hits close to home.

What hits even closer, is something he can barely admit to himself, let alone another living, breathing human being.

It's the fact that he feels like she never needs him as much as he needs her. That she never misses him as he misses her. That he feels all these unfamiliar sensations and it never seems to faze her as much as it fazes him.

He's like a little, insecure girl.

She makes him feel like a little, insecure girl – so what if he cuts her off? It would go away, right?

Right?

"I don't really know," he sighs, lying through his teeth. "I just think it's for the best. You know, _easier_."

Because he wouldn't have to _feel_ so much.

He's sure she's going to hit him. He closes his eyes momentarily, but the blow never comes. When he opens them again, he finds her rumbling in the bag she brought with her, and is caught off guard when she takes out a book.

"You know," she starts, "I don't think I ever fully realised how much of a coward you are. Congratulations, Malfoy, you really do your family name justice."

And then she throws the book at him.

He blinks twice when it hits his shoulder. In a flash he's transported back to his five-year-old form, with his mother screaming and the clattering of the vase setting his teeth on edge. He pictures himself looking as dazed and apathetic as his father did, wanting the two ends of his life circle to connect, but unlike his father, he actually cares.

Of course he fucking cares.

He _loves_ this nutcase.

He watches her as she sweeps the bag over her shoulder. He tries not to focus on the whole of her face, but settles for a certain freckle, just to not really _see_. He wants her to be unhappy, yeah. But now she's actually growing just a little paler than she usually is, and now he notices the shine in her eyes, he doesn't want to witness it as badly as he thought he would. Instead he stands there, still, and can't refrain the poison from slipping in – an unfamiliar sinking in his gut, an unfamiliar ball of guilt choking up his throat.

If she starts to cry, he thinks, he'll take it back.

But he doesn't expect her to, and of course she doesn't.

He's never seen her cry. Because she's strong and independent and her pride's so big it almost, _almost_ swallows his. And that's just exactly it. He's too proud to love her for free, and she's too proud to convince him otherwise. So here they are; broken up and torn and he'll probably start slitting his wrists if she doesn't leave soon – and, shit, this isn't _anything_ like him. It's nothing like him, because as he said, he doesn't understand anything of it. It's what makes him a child of his father, more than the cowardice, blond hair and the grey eyes - or even the name.

_Malfoy_.

She made it sound like such a sincere insult.

"And to think I actually _love you_."

She shakes her head and turns around.

He registers it, yeah.

But he registers her walking out of the door more and he knows he should run after her and tell her it was all some ridiculous joke (not entirely implausible in his case, after all), but he's like a statue and he thinks –

_Yeah well_.

Love is fucked up.

Because that's _all he knows_.

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Leave your thoughts :]

Cheers


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